


In your warmth I forget how cold it can be

by Silfrvarg



Series: Master thieves and private eyes [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 13:37:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17850497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silfrvarg/pseuds/Silfrvarg
Summary: Juno's being hunted by assassins and runs into an old friend and they talk about their feelings. Eventually.ORJuno doesn’t know who wants him dead this time around (...) And at this rate he doubts he’ll live long enough to find out.





	In your warmth I forget how cold it can be

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so wow, this started as a sad little idea that just wouldn't go, then I tried to make it less sad by making it fit one of my bad things happen bingo squares and I think I actually made it worse.
> 
> There is a happy ish ending though I promise!

Juno doesn’t know who wants him dead this time around. He’s got theories, sure, it could be the Kanagawas, it could be cops or politicians who had been in Pilot Pereyra’s pockets, it could be someone that had figured out that he’d been doing Ramses O'Flaherty’s dirty work and wanted revenge for… something. Honestly, there are a lot of people who might want him dead.

 

And at this rate he doubts he’ll live long enough to find out.

 

He’s been dodging hired killers for _days_ now, and they- they just keep coming. There have been a few close calls, laser blasts so close they’d singed his skin, a knife that had just managed to glance off his ribs rather than between them. He hasn’t slept in god knows how long, hasn’t eaten anything like a real meal in just as long, too busy slinking through alleys and run-down buildings in the worst parts of the city. Well, the worst parts of the city that are still _left_.

 

He’s running on empty and he knows, he _knows_ he can’t keep it up for much longer.

 

The five assassins chasing him know it too. They’re close, right on his heels, laser blasts scorching the pavement behind him, but not closing the distance just yet. They know they don’t have to bother, they don’t have to outrun him, they just have to _wait_.

 

And maybe a couple of months ago, hell, a couple of weeks ago, he would given up before now. He would have looked behind him to see certain death and just _stopped_.

 

Today though, he doesn’t. He keeps running, because he’s not _done_ yet. He wants to live. He wants to believe that life is _worth_ living.

 

It’s not going to make a difference. He knows it.

 

He turns down a narrow alley, stumbling as he bounces off the wall, looking around for somewhere to hide, some way to get just a little more distance, keep running for just a few moments longer.

 

He didn’t see the man in the alley, not until it’s too late. Not until he’s slammed roughly against the concrete wall with a plasma knife held to his carotid artery.

 

He’s breathless, shaking with adrenaline, with exhaustion, with the utter certainty that he’s about to die.

 

The blade doesn’t cut though, doesn’t waver from where it’s sitting just a hair’s breadth away from his skin, so, figuring he might as well get a look at his killer before he goes, he looks.

 

Sharp teeth and bright eyes and a smell he hadn’t noticed while running for his life, a smell like excitement and laughter and Peter Nureyev. Peter Nureyev, who was holding the blade to his neck.

 

His breath leaves him in a rush, the realization like a highscraper collapsing on him from above.

 

And in the face of Peter Nureyev, eyes hard and face unsmiling, he stops.

 

He stops running, stops fighting, stops looking for a way out. With Peter’s knife to his throat, he relaxes. For the first time in _days_ he lets the tension leave him, the fear too.

 

It’s not because he thinks Peter won’t kill him. It’s because he knows he _will_.

 

And that’s- he’s actually ok with that.

 

If it was anyone else, he’d fight it. He’d struggle until the very last second.

 

But it’s not anyone else, it’s _Peter._ If Peter thinks he deserves to die, If he’s hurt Peter so much that he _truly_ wants to kill him? How can he argue with that?

 

Going out on the blade of the man he’d walked out on might not have been how he’d imagined dying, but it seems… fitting. Fair almost.

 

The blade hasn’t cut yet. Peter’s just holding it there, looking into his eyes searchingly. Does he want Juno to say something? To beg? To apologize?

 

Juno doesn’t know what he wants, so he just opens his mouth and breathes out the truth. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

Juno smiles, and he can’t tell what it looks like, but it feels… it feels sad and wry and hopeless, like he can’t help but smile at Peter, like even when he’s got a knife to his throat, he can’t help but look at the other man like he’s the sun.

 

Peter’s eyes are sharp and determined, but there’s sorrow there too, something raw and aching and that, that more than anything tells Juno that this is what needs to happen.

 

He tilts his head back, exposing his throat without hesitation.

 

Peter’s other hand comes up, cupping the back of his neck gently, and there’s a sting where he brushes some cut Juno didn’t remember, but he can’t stop himself from leaning into the touch.

 

Peter steels himself, hand tightening on the blade.

 

And-

 

He cuts.

 

It’s quick, clean and barely even stings. If it wasn’t for the hot blood splashing down from his throat, Juno would think he’d just been nicked.

 

He can’t help but bring his hands up to try clasp at his neck, instinctively trying to staunch the bleeding. Peter catches his hands gently, pulling them away from his neck to let the blood flow faster.

 

“Hush Juno,” Peter says softly, his voice shaking, “Don’t- don’t fight it. Please.”

 

So, Juno doesn’t.

 

He sags against the wall, legs suddenly unable to hold his weight, and Peter follows, holding onto his arms and gently lowering him to the ground, kneeling down in front of him and looking at him like-

 

There’s tenderness there, not anger, not hate.

 

And maybe Juno should be angry, maybe he should be hurt, betrayed.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t lean against the man who just killed him.

 

He does anyway.

 

He’s shaking, and cold, his whole body is going numb and his vision is fading at the edges and he’s not... he’s not scared so much as he’s fully aware that he’s dying. He’s dying, and he thinks he’s allowed to seek out some comfort, some peace.

 

Peter doesn’t push him away. He holds him gently, and Juno wishes he had the strength, the breath to thank him for it.

 

If he had to die, well, quick, painless and cradled in the arms of someone who he loved was a better death than he’d ever dared to hope for.

 

With what feels like the very last dregs of his strength he leans forward to press his face into Peter’s shoulder, clinging with everything he has left.

 

He thinks he’s crying, his tears soaking into Peter’s shirt. He lets his eyes slide shut with a sigh, his breaths slow now, barely there.

 

He thinks he feels the gentle brush of lips on his temple, a soft whisper in his ear.

  
  
“I’m sorry Juno.”

  
  
It’s hard to tell though, because after that-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s floating, or, well, maybe floating is the wrong word, the wrong feeling. Feeling, that’s the problem, because it’s not a feeling, not really, it’s the absence of feeling. A void.

  
  
He doesn’t know how long he’s there, or _not_ there, floating but not, feeling but not. It could an instant. It could be an eternity.

  
  
He doesn’t keep track. It doesn’t even occur to him to try until suddenly...

  
  
Something. Something where there was nothing.

  
  
He feels... warm. Comfortable. The void hadn’t been comfortable, the void hadn’t been _anything_. This is nice, like... it’s like... it feels like a warm mug clasped in his hands on a rainy afternoon, like sunshine through the curtains on a lazy morning, like gentle smiles and soft laughter. It feels like warm blankets and a soft bed and a quiet room, like waking slowly and comfortably with the knowledge that you don’t have to move anytime soon.

  
  
Actually, it feels _exactly_ like that.

  
  
And that, well, that’s not something Juno ever thought he’d experience again.

  
  
Mostly because he was absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he was dead.

  
  
Part of him wants to keep lying here, to enjoy the peace and the warmth and leave worrying about why he wasn’t dead to future Juno.

  
  
Damn it, he’s curious now though, and there’s no way he’ll be getting back to sleep until he’s figured it out.

  
  
Slowly, he opens his eyes.

  
  
He doesn’t recognise the room, no surprise really, the bed is larger and far too comfortable to be the one in his apartment. It’s a nice room, large, airy, with plenty of natural light streaming through the windows, the furniture tasteful if bland in that way that screamed high quality hotel.

  
  
There’s an armchair by the window, facing the bed, and sprawled out on it in a tangle of long limbs that still managed to look graceful is Peter Nureyev.

  
  
“What the hell?” Juno asks aloud, and he’s not surprised by how hoarse his voice is, he’s more surprised that he still _has_ a voice.

 

The question is apparently enough to wake Peter.

 

“Juno! Don’t- don’t try to get up,” Peter pleads softly, reaching out to pick up a bottle of water from the bedside table, “Here. You should drink.”

 

Peter holds the bottle from him as he takes a sip of the water, which is thoughtful of him because while Juno is still feeling very comfortable, he’s also not feeling like he could move far if he tried.

 

Peter is looking at him, and his face- god, the man looks _harrowed_ , like he’s stared straight into hell.

 

“What happened back there, Peter? How am I still alive?” Juno asks quietly.

 

“I’m so sorry I had to do that to you Juno, it was- it must have been horrible, to think you were dying, to think I was killing you like that,” Peter looks away, “It was all I could think of at such short notice, I couldn’t even get in touch with you to warn you, by the time I was on mars you’d already destroyed your comms and sent Rita away and I didn’t know if I’d find you in time-“

 

“Peter, slow down,” Juno says quietly, giving the other man time to pull himself together, “Now, run that by me again?”

Peter takes a moment to regain his composure.

 

“I saw the contract for your assassination, and with the amount of money on offer, it didn’t matter if I killed every assassin I found, they would just keep coming for you. I didn’t have time to find out who ordered the hit either, by the time I’d done that, you would already have been-“ Peter cuts himself off.

 

“The only way the contract would end would be if you were dead. Thankfully, this is not the first time I’ve had to fake an assassination.” Peter finishes.

 

“Fake an- Peter, that didn’t feel very fake to me! I felt- it was-“ Juno can’t even put it into words.

 

“You felt yourself die,” Peter finishes for him, voice low and heavy with guilt, “It’s because you did. To fool the other assassins, to fool whoever put the hit on you, you _had_ to be dead. I stopped your heart.”

 

“How?” Juno demands quietly.

 

“A particularly expensive and highly illegal drug called Reaper,” Peter says, “It mimics death perfectly, stops the heart, stops the lungs, stops all brain activity. Depending on the dosage it can last anywhere from a minute to an hour, or, if you’re not careful, forever.”

 

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re so careful,” Juno breathes in relief, “But, what about the blood? The knife?”

 

“I’m afraid I _did_ have to cut you a little to sell it,” Peter sighs, “Just a small cut, about a quarter inch away from your carotid artery, enough to bleed a little, enough that _you_ believed it.”

 

“A little? That wasn’t a _little_ bit of blood.”

 

“No, that was around three litres of fresh human blood stolen from a hospital and kept in pouches under my coat. It wouldn’t have convinced them if you hadn’t been slumped against me like that, but, as it was… you made a very convincing corpse Juno.” Peter says.

 

Juno looks, really looks at Peter, and he’s never seen him like this, not even in those weeks spent huddled together in a Martian tomb, watching each other be tortured.

 

The master thief rarely shows any sort of weakness, but it’s plain as day that he’s rattled, _haunted_ by this.

 

“What’s got you so messed up about this, Peter?” Juno asks gently, “It was your plan, and it worked, so-“

 

“Yes. It was my plan. I couldn’t tell you about it beforehand, I had to actually _hunt_ you down and pin you to a wall and cut your throat and _you_ didn’t know it wasn’t real! Juno, you thought I was _killing_ you!”

 

Peter’s voice breaks, and Juno wishes he had the strength to get out of this bed and hold him because he couldn’t bare to watch him shake apart like this.

 

“Yeah. I did.” Juno says softly.

“And that’s the worst part Juno, because I expected you to be angry, hurt and betrayed, but you weren’t. I expected you to fight me, to struggle until the last moment, but you _didn’t_. You _let_ me kill you, and you- the way you looked at me, the way you smiled and bared your throat and leaned into me when you thought you were _dying_ , when you thought I’d _killed_ you?”

 

Peter is crying now.

 

Juno doesn’t know what to do.

 

“I thought… I thought if you couldn’t be happy with _me_ , then at least you’d be happy without me Juno. I knew you were… vulnerable, after everything with Miasma, but I didn’t think, I didn’t think you’d-“ Peter starts.

 

Juno cuts him off, “No Peter, that’s not on you. You’re right, I was- I was in a _bad_ place after Miasma. But hell, I was in a bad place long before then. I’ve been…. I’ve been trying though. To be better. It’s not easy, and it’s not fast, and, well, I’m probably always going to be fighting against- against that part of me that just wants to roll over and die.”

 

Juno looks down, “I didn’t want to die today Peter. I’d been running, fighting for _days_ , and it was hopeless, but I still tried. If it had been _anyone_ else in that alley, I would have fought like hell just to live a moment longer.”

 

“So why didn’t you fight Juno?” Peter asks, voice still broken.

 

“I couldn’t fight _you_. I just, I _couldn’t_. Even if… even if you hated me enough to kill me, I could never… I could never stop loving you.”

 

“That’s- Juno,  I could never hate you, not truly,” Peter says, leaning forwards to grab Juno’s hand “But I want don’t want you _dying_ for me. I don’t want you threatening your own life to save mine, or locking yourself into a room with a monster _alone_ , or letting me _kill_ you. I want you to _live_.”

 

Juno squeezes his hand back, “I know Peter. I know. I _am_ trying. I tell myself that it’ll all be worth it, that there’s better days to come, that there are people who love me and want me to stick around. Some days I even manage to believe it now.”

 

“Juno,” Peter says seriously, “I know that I said I’d leave Mars for good if you didn’t want to see me again, and coming back only to hunt you down and _hurt_ you like this… I don’t blame you if you want me to go. If you want me to stay, if you’d _let_ me stay though, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”

 

Juno looks at Peter, really looks, and he sees…

 

He sees the man who kissed him and stole from him and _gave him his name_. He sees the man who left him in an ancient Martian tomb and _came back for him_. The man who held a knife to his throat and cut and _saved his life_. The man who’s offered him his heart, over and over.

 

And Juno?

 

What can he do but offer his in return?

 

“There’s no one I’d rather have by my side.”

 

Peter smiles at him, and today? Juno can believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the square 'fake kill scare' on my bingo card. Originally I just had the thought that I wanted to write Juno pinned to a wall with Peter's knife at his throat and no inclination to fight back which was bad enough but then this happened.
> 
> Come follow me at tumblr to spray me with a squirt bottle when I get angsty ideas at silfrvarg.tumblr.com.


End file.
